The Queen of Night
by Kate Browne
Summary: THe Heroes have to blow up a bridge, assassinate a general, and get a double agent out of Germany--all while the Colonel has a bad head-cold. Will they succeed?
1. Default Chapter

**The Queen of Night**

Newly promoted Lt. Col. Elena Schmidl looked up from her work to see her secretary place a Meissen coffee service on her desk. She glanced over to the clock on the wall. It read 8:30. "Thank you, Bauman," she murmured. She went back to the files spread before her as Bauman retreated from the cavernous office with the giant portrait of Der Furher behind the colonel's desk.

Pouring some of the steaming liquid into a delicate porcelain cup, Schmidl, a small woman with a short bob of salt and pepper hair over a still, serious face, contemplated the file before her. It concerned a suspected underground unit being run from inside a prison camp near Hammelburg. The evidence so far collected suggested that the camp was a way station for escaping Allied prisoners, as well as the home of a band of saboteurs who had blown up practically every bridge, train trestle, tunnel, and convoy within a 15 kilometer radius.

She reached over and pulled out a photograph of the ringleader--a handsome, dark-haired American colonel smiling brashly. Between sips of real, luscious coffee, Schmidl remarked aloud, "I doubt you'll smile so broadly, when I come to interrogate you, Robert Edward Hogan, former commanding officer of the 504th bomb wing. We know all about you and your little operation. All that remains is to close in on you. And by the time I'm done with you, you surely won't look your 36 years. In fact, your mother in Connecticut won't recognize you." She gave a tight-lipped smile as she set her cup down and reached for her phone to order her car.

HH HH HH

Unbeknownst to Col. Schmidl, at that precise moment, the usually elegant, graceful Col. Hogan tripped over an exposed tree root and fell headlong into an icy creek. The shock of the cold water practically propelled him backwards. "Of all the stupid things…," he spluttered, trying to shake himself dry.

Sgt. James Kinchloe tried not to smile, but couldn't quite restrain himself. The colonel looked and acted like a wet, indignant cat, particularly with his black hair plastered to his forehead and almost in his eyes.

The colonel caught the small smirk and growled, "You think this is funny, do you?"

"No, sir." Kinch suppressed his merriment and remarked seriously, "We'd better get you back to camp before you freeze to death." This December night was cold and raw, and the wind made it worse.

Before Hogan could respond, their demolitions expert, Sgt. Andrew Carter, cried out, "Gosh darn it!" Hogan and Kinchloe looked at each other before crouching next to the lanky sergeant. Whatever it was, it was serious. Carter seldom swore like that.

"What's the matter, Andrew?" asked Kinch.

"The detonators are defective." He always brought extras. Just in case. "They looked fine when I inspected them earlier, but now I see they're no good." He made it sound like it was all his fault.

"Well, that scraps this mission." Hogan clapped him on the shoulder. "Back to camp, gentlemen."

"Wait a second, Colonel. You'd better get out of that wet jacket and turtleneck." Kinchloe had heard Hogan's teeth chattering and was stripping off his army field jacket to hand to his CO. "I'll make it back to camp better than you will, sir."

Hogan didn't argue with his radioman—just handed him wet clothes after wrapping himself in the still warm jacket.

Fortunately, they were less than a mile from camp. Kinch pulled the tunnel lid down and heard Carter yell to Corporal. Louis LeBeau, the outfit's French chef, "Hey, Louis, you'd better get some hot coffee down here. The colonel's all wet." Kinch groaned inwardly. He figured the colonel was going to be the butt of some serious teasing as a result of this misstep.

HH HH HH

Magic Flute, a small, slight Welshwoman with black hair and eyes, surreptitiously looked around her. The room was dark, and nothing moved. She turned back to her mission: stealing weapons designs. These included newer rocket designs. She moved silently to the wall, removed the genuine, but stolen, Rembrandt, and cracked the safe behind it. Quickly rifling through the various papers, Magic Flute found what she sought: a thick roll of rocket designs.

Something caught her eye. It was an itinerary for Field Marshal Dieter Marck. Oooh, she thought. Getting rid of him had been the sticky part of her swan song, but here he was right on the silver salver. His demise would throw the Gerrys in a tizzy, particularly if it looked like a Gestapo execution. She shook her bobbed hair. She was getting ahead of herself. She closed the safe, took the designs and itinerary, and quickly, quietly disappeared into the night.

HH HH HH

Morning dawned pale and chill with the threat of snow hanging in the air. Despite the fact his men had trundled him into bed wrapped in warmed clothes and blankets, Hogan began the day feeling cold and unwell. The day progressed, and the cold sank deeper into his bones, causing him to shiver uncontrollably at moments. By evening, when the snow began to fall in earnest, a pounding headache above his eyes added to his miseries, made him truly cross. After watching the heavy snowfall for several minutes, he slammed the window shut with a bang. "Well, this certainly takes care of our attempts on that bridge," he said to no one in particular.

"We couldn't do anything about it anyway, sir. We've got no reliable detonators, and our supply drop from London isn't until tomorrow."

Hogan glared at Carter. Reasonableness when his head was pounding was too much. But Kinchloe cut off his sharp retort. "And with this weather, that has been cancelled." He looked up at Hogan. "More good news, Colonel. London really wants that bridge blown. In addition, we're supposed to make contact with an agent codenamed Magic Flute, and work with her on getting stolen rocket plans to England." He paused to take a breath.

Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF, snarled, "And they'd like us to 'ang the wash on the Siegfried Line while we're at it?" He shook his head while others snickered. "They're bloody daft, they are."

"Well, here's the best part. We've got to help Magic Flute assassinate Field Marshal Dieter Marck." The radio man handed Hogan the clipboard.

The colonel studied it for a moment. The agent would contact them using the prescribed code. Who made up these codes, he thought, and not for the first time, either. London had clearly gone off the deep end with the query, "I go to Salzburg for the Mozart Festival" to be answered with "I go to Vienna to visit his grave." Couldn't they have at least thought of something else? Mozart had no known grave. Hogan tossed the clipboard on the table and rubbed his aching temples with both hands, eyes closed. "Kinch, contact the Underground. See if they can help us out with a couple of detonators."

"I can try and rig something, Colonel. Of course, it won't be reliable, and I'll have to bird dog it carefully."

Sighing gently before opening his eyes, Hogan said firmly, "No, Carter. It would be too dangerous." He fixed the demolitions expert with a stern gaze. "Your chances of being spotted by a patrol would be very high. Too high for me to accept."

"But, Colonel…."

"Don't 'but, colonel' me. My word's final on that." Carter nodded affirmatively. "Besides, in case of disaster, how would I ever explain it to Kommandant Klink?" Let alone your mother, he added silently.

"You could always tell him I'd been playing with my junior chemistry set."

It was silly, but it got a small smile from Hogan who picked up his coffee mug and retreated to his office.

HH HH HH

Newkirk ground out his cigarette before reaching for a deck of cards. "Is it my imagination, gents, or do we have an ill colonel on our 'ands?"

Carter sat down. "I don't know if he's sick, but he's sure got some headache. He hit me up for 3 APCs just about an hour ago."

The Frenchman sat down next to Newkirk and accepted a handful of cards. "He needs to stay in bed for a few days and rest." The little corporal looked at the other guys.

"If you think we're going to tackle the guv'nor in is condition, you're barmy, mate." Newkirk stared at his cards a moment. "Look, Louis, we all know what a nasty temper 'e's got when 'e's tired. 'Ow much worse do you think it'll be now 'e's feeling poorly?"

Kinch reappeared at the table. "Deal me in, Peter." Carter looked meaningfully at him. "No luck, Andrew. Underground can't help us."

Carter got up to pace around the room. He stopped and announced, "Okay, guys, I've got a plan."

"Oh, brother," moaned Newkirk.

"You haven't heard it yet. The bridge can be blown the old-fashioned way." Blank looks all around. "Without a proper detonator, dynamite can still be blown using a squib of gunpowder between the sticks. A length of gunpowder treated cotton string becomes the fuse."

"Andrew, you've gone 'round the flamin' twist. You of all people know how dangerous that is."

"Yeah, and that's why I'm going alone." He brought up the heavy artillery—those earnest, begging blue eyes of his. "Look, if I do the bridge, that's one less thing the colonel has to worry about. One less thing London's gonna to hound him about."

"Yeah, and if you blow the bridge, he's gonna have your head for disobeying him."

The Englishman shuddered. "I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but I'm with you, Andrew." He groaned as he looked at his cards. "When do you want to pull off this little trick?"

"Tomorrow night. The snow's too thick tonight. Besides, I have to make the fuse lines."

"We'll leave that to you, André. For us, we will see to it the colonel rests."

Newkirk protested. "You see to it, mate."

Kinchloe nodded vigorously in agreement.

HH HH HH

It was almost time for morning roll call, and Hogan had yet to emerge from his room. LeBeau nervously summoned up the courage to beard the lion in his den. Cautiously opening the door, the Frenchman peered in. Hogan, stepping into his trousers, turned and said, "Do you mind?" His voice was weak, and it was clear from his pale face that sleep had mostly eluded him. LeBeau closed the door as Schultz started yelling for roll call.

The men lined up in the cold, gray morning light, snow lightly dusting them. As Schultz started counting, he realized that Hogan was missing. "Where is Colonel Hogan?"

Sgt. Kinchloe, looking at LeBeau for confirmation, responded, "He's coming, and Schultz, he's sick."

Newkirk muttered, under his breath, "And a sick colonel's no peach."

The kommandant waited impatiently. Colonel Wilhelm Klink, stood huddled in his overcoat. He was anything but pleased and recognized immediately that his senior POW was missing. Before Schultz could say anything, the kommandant railed, "Where is Colonel Hogan?"

The barracks door opened. Hogan tried to sneak to his place. Klink spotted him. "How nice of you to join us this morning, colonel." He dripped sarcasm. "Don't tell me. You slept in this morning."

The American officer summoned up enough energy to respond, "Actually, I was just late getting dressed for the party."

The kommandant, with his riding crop tucked under his arm, rushed gracelessly up to Hogan, getting nose to nose with the POW—who sneezed right in Klink's face. Achoo. The men started laughing and stamping their feet. "Great answer, colonel" one of the men hooted. Achoo. Achoo.

The kommandant yelled, "Dismissed" and turned on his heel, scurried away without giving a backward glance.

Once inside, Hogan coughed and reached for a cup of coffee, only to be handed a cup of tea. He took a giant swig of it and made a face. "What do you call this swill, Newkirk?"

"Tea, sir, and you should have plenty of it."

"Yeah, right. And you're trying to kill me?'

Before Newkirk could respond, Kinch said, "Colonel, go back to bed. There's nothing to do until Magic Flute contacts us, and after this morning's performance, Klink's not going to bother you." Hogan tried to demur, but Kinch went on. "Have you seen yourself this morning? You look awful."

"Mon colonel, you're pale, but your eyes are fever-bright. You're sneezing and coughing. Go back to bed and rest."

"Sleep the thing off," agreed Carter.

Hogan shook his head. "All right. I'll go, but," he pointed a finger at LeBeau, "if you come near me with a mustard—or Bernaise—plaster, corporal, you'll be flying to France courtesy of a size 10." Grimacing, he set the tea mug down and went to his own bunk.

LeBeau looked in few minutes later, saw Hogan sleeping, tiptoed in and pulled up the colonel's blanket. He put a hand to Hogan's forehead. Quietly, he left.

Kinchloe asked, "What's the verdict?

"I don't care what the colonel says. He's sicker than he's willing to admit. He has a fever, his breathing's ragged, and he gets that mustard plaster."

"And how are you going to get him to take it?'

"You're going to sit on him."

"What makes you think I am going to help you in this project? Getting the colonel to go back to bed was relatively easy, but he meant it about the plaster. And frankly, I don't feel like getting court-martialed. Or sent to the Russian Front."

LeBeau shook his head. "He won't court-martial you, and he can't send you to the Russian Front."

Carter, who'd been looking out the periscope, yelled, "Wow! Would you look at that!"

"What is it, Andrew?' asked Newkirk wearily.

"Gestapo. Heading for Klink's office."

"Oh, good. 'Appy 'Arry 'ochestter is it?"

"No. It is somebody I've never seen. A woman colonel."

That got the men up and looking out the door. "She'd be an attractive bird, if it weren't for that ruddy undertaker's outfit." Newkirk paused before adding, "We really should have a listen."

They quietly entered Hogan's room, plugged in the coffee pot, and listened to the conversation.

HH HH HH

In his office, Klink brooded. He was furious with Colonel Hogan, but Schultz had informed him that the American was ill. Sill, that didn't excuse the bad manners, which was really so unlike Hogan. At his worst, the younger man was insufferably impudent. He certainly didn't behave like a prisoner. Far from it. He acted like he ran the place. But he didn't behave like a boor. Sneezing in my face, Klink fumed silently, was utterly unbecoming an officer and a gentleman.

Fraulein Hilda opened his office door and intruded on his thoughts. "Herr Kommandant, Gestapo to see you." The lovely blonde was clearly nervous.

Klink had barely risen from his chair when a small, serious-faced woman with gray-streaked black hair strode in. This was a new Gestapo officer, one he'd never seen before. She straight-arm saluted Der Furher.

Clicking his heels together, Klink returned the salute less formally, flipping only his hand up. He began to fuss nervously. "How may I help you? I am always ready to help the Gestapo in anything." He gave her an ingratiating smile.

The woman handed him her papers and said, "Lt. Colonel Elena Schmidl."

Klink saw her age listed as 42 years. Except for the hair, she didn't really look it. In fact, she was very attractive—slim figure, perfect complexion, lustrous dark-eyes. Klink felt he could lose himself in those eyes. What was it Hogan said? Oo la la la? Very definitely oo la la la. He returned her papers.

Softly, as she delicately removed her gloves, she answered his question. "I am here to arrest and interrogate Robert Hogan."

Blinking in surprise, he stumbled for a response. "But Lieutenant-Colonel Schmidl, he's a prisoner. What could you possibly want with him? It's not as if he goes anywhere." Klink tried to make light of it. "Are you here to teach him some manners or cure him of his insufferable gall?" His attempts at humor fell flat. Schmidl pierced him with a malevolent gaze. He quickly caved in, whining, "Yes, yes. I will have him brought here right away."

"Have him taken directly to the cooler. And then we will have lunch, no? I always prefer to question on a full stomach."

HH HH HH

Newkirk broke the silence. "Blimey!…."

"Pull the plug on the coffeepot." They turned around to stare at Hogan, who swung himself into a sitting position and reached for his jacket. Kinchloe took care of the pot.

"This is what we do. They arrest me, and you don't wait for me. You get out of here." He looked at them very seriously. "Do not let your loyalty get the better of your common sense. And that's an order."

He sneezed as two guards broke in and grabbed him to drag him off to the cooler.

HH HH HH

Several hours of twiddling his thumbs and trying to sleep later Hogan finally met the lady who'd ordered his arrest. Just looking at her caused his heart to skip a beat. She was stunning, particularly her curveous legs. Controlling himself, he stood up—and looked down on her. He was a foot taller than she. To cover his own nervousness and attraction, Hogan thrust his chin at Klink, right behind her, and quipped, "So, they let midgets in the Gestapo these days, Herr Kommandant?" He yelped in pain as she drove her heavy shoe heel into his arch.

"I am Lieutenant Colonel Elena Schmidl, and I tolerate no wisecracking from MY prisoners."

Hogan sat back down, rubbing his foot. She'd nailed him pretty effectively. "Do I get to know why I am here or are you just going to shoot me?" he wheezed at her.

"I will ask you some questions," she drew her pistol, "and then I will shoot you." She stepped toward him, and Hogan thought for one, awful moment she did mean to shoot him. But, surprising him, she rounded on Klink and the guards, gun still drawn. "I will interrogate this prisoner personally. And alone." To Hogan, Klink looked as if he might protest, but decided against it. He and the guards left. "I'll call when I'm finished."

Hogan decided to attack. "All right, lady. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Schmidl reholstered the Luger, and said, in a decidedly British accent, "I can see how you run this place. You must have Klink around your little finger." Hogan stared at her in disbelief. And sneezed. Achoo. Pause. Achoo. Achoo. He reached for his handkerchief without success. She handed him her lacy one. "Sorry about the cold, old man. If I'd known you were ill, I'd have made other arrangements." Her British voice was sweet and friendly, with an almost musical lilt. She sounded genuinely sorry for his distress.

"Who are you?"

"I go to Salzburg for the Mozart Festival."

Dark brown eyes widened even further before the voice coughed out, "I go to Vienna to visit his grave." Hogan stifled the cough, adding dryly, "Wherever it may be."

She giggled. "You caught that one, too?"

"You're Magic Flute?"

"The one and only." She moved closer to him. He backed away with self-preservatory discretion. Or so he thought. She paid no attention. "Time is of the essence. I have the schematics of the new rockets. London wants these right away." She looked at him. "I am sorry to have frightened you, but I have been in the Gestapo--and stealing information—for several years now. You can get away with many things if only you snarl and threaten a bit. I wanted Klink well away and out of my hair to tell you this."

"Right."

"Don't trust me? I don't blame you, really, but I don't have time for games. The rest of the plan goes like this. Elena Schmidl has her own interrogation techniques. First, a little preliminary pummeling, then some careful, considerate treatment, during which time Schmidl stares silently at her victim. It works—if you don't know it's coming."

"Good cop, bad cop routine in one person."

"This evening, I will have Klink arrange for you to have a hot bath and a good supper in his quarters. You'll play chess under my watchful eye until late into the evening when a call from headquarters will force my return to Berlin. Your man Kinchloe—General Kinchmeyer, I believe—can say anything he wants. After I leave, your men will attack my car on the road back to Hammelburg. It will be blown to bits, and it will very much seem as if Schmidl has met her fate. You get the papers then."

"You want out?" Hogan's ears were burning.

"I have no choice. Both Hochstetter and Feldcamp are suspicious. Schmidl seems always to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—at least from their perspective."

"So they've been digging."

"It's only a matter of time before they blow my cover."

"So you lead them right to me and my men. Thanks a lot, lady!" Hogan's indignation would have carried more weight if he hadn't ended it with a fit of coughing.

"They have got a very good idea of what you've been up to. I took the liberty of rewriting the file on you. It bears only the slightest resemblance to reality. And if I follow my routine, Klink, and even you, will tell the right story."

She gave him no warning before socking him right in his sore nose. Her ring caught him in the lip, cutting it.

"Ow!" Hogan was used to getting kissed, not slugged, by beautiful women. He jumped up to get away from her, but didn't get out of arm's length—and harm's way—before she put the butt end of the Luger just under his right kneecap, dropping him like a steer. The lights went out for Hogan as she brought down the pistol on the back of his neck.

Putting a couple of well-placed kicks to the ribcage, Magic Flute/Schmidl finished her interrogation. She called for the guards.


	2. Queen 2

Kinchloe spoke to LeBeau. "Who'd have thought that a Gestapo officer would be the means of getting that mustard plaster on the colonel's chest."

"You're just grateful you didn't have to sit on him," the Frenchman accused.

"Too bloody right," chimed Newkirk. "Still, do believe the job she did on him?"

The men had been horrified to see the colonel, unconscious and bleeding, unceremoniously dropped into the barracks. They'd moved him, as gently as they could, into his own bunk and dealt with his wounds.

"She could have done a lot more. I think this was just for effect—on Klink, if not us." Kinch was the voice of reason. "Look, guys, the colonel's only got a bloody nose, a split lip, and some nastily bruised ribs. There's no real blood, and no broken bones."

"Or bullet holes," added Carter.

"It's his being unconscious that's got us spooked."

"And with all the noise you're makin', how's a fella supposed stay that way?"

Hogan tried to sit up, but his head spun around too badly for that. If he'd thought the headache the night before had been bad, this was worse. His men gathered around. "Hey, fellas, I'm not dying." He squawked, "LeBeau."

"Oui, mon colonel?"

"What did I tell you?"

"You were in no condition to make good your threat. You still aren't." LeBeau looked at him, crossed his arms over his chest. "Furthermore, don't try to get up. You're confined to bed until further notice."

Hogan cocked his head. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Oui."

"Wonderful." He did sit up, but needed a steadying arm from Kinchloe to do it. "Our lovely Gestapo officer still here?

"Yes, sir, she is. Gettin' the grand tour from old Klink, who seems just a wee bit nervous with 'er."

"After what happened to you, colonel, I'd be nervous, too," opined Carter.

Hogan shot him a look, made that much worse by his swollen lip. "Well, she's Magic Flute, and she laying covering tracks."

Newkirk snorted. "So she needed to beat you up?"

"Kinch is right. She could have done a lot worse to me, including shooting me. She left just enough marks on me to make it convincing, but nothing really to hurt me." He flexed his knee. "Ow. Well, maybe, walking's going to be a problem for awhile." He looked at his watch. "Round two should commence any time now."

He motioned them to be silent. "It's the nice round—hot bath, good supper, chess game with Klink. All under her watchful eye. Somewhere around 11pm, Kinch, I want you to call Lieutenant Colonel Elena Schmidl in Klink's quarters. Tell her you're General Kinchmeyer; just say anything to get her out of there. At roughly midnight, Newkirk, you, Carter, and LeBeau," he fixed the Frenchman in his sight, "meet her on the Hammelburg road. Blow the car, grab her, and get the plans. Wait till she gets ready to leave, then go out. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," they chorused.

Hogan held Kinch back. He knew his men were unhappy with this plan. "I've got a little surprise for her."

"You don't trust her, do you, sir?"

"I'm not sure, Kinch. So I'll let London sort it out. She AND the schematics go back to London, all neatly tied up."

Kinchloe started to chuckle. "I doubt seriously that she's going to let us tie her up and bundle her back to London like a sack of potatoes."

"By the time she regains consciousness, she'll be halfway there." Hogan pressed his temple. "And speaking of consciousness, let me lose mine for awhile."

HH HH HH

Coming out of the colonel's room, Kinch noted Carter looked and sounded exasperated. "Actually, Newkirk, this works out better. I've got the stuff ready to go. We leave early, blow the bridge, at say 10:45pm. Kinch calls the Wicked Witch of the East to complain about saboteurs at 11pm. She gets on her broom and rides outta here and we go meet her. And the colonel can rest easy."

HH HH HH

Colonel Klink looked white as a ghost, Hogan thought as he sauntered, as best he could with a painfully stiff knee, into the kommandant's private quarters, robe and towel over his shoulder. Undoubtedly due to the gloomy, baleful presence of Elena Schmidl. I can't say as I disagree, colonel.

Cutting off the racy tune he'd been whistling, he practically leered at the Gestapo agent. "Come to join me in the bath? I do hope you brought your own rubber ducky."

Klink appeared ready to faint, but Magic Flute's lips twitched. A repressed giggle? wondered Hogan.

The hot bath was enormously relaxing, and supper was decent, if overdone. But cozy and fed, Hogan would have preferred to have just listened to the radio until he nodded off. Trying to concentrate on chess proved to be too much. And Klink struggled as much as he did. Both were making egregious errors of strategy and tactics. Schmidl sat perpendicular to them, forming the third point of the triangle. She had stared at him all night, and it took all his willpower not to jump up and scream out all sorts of information. Klink looked worse. They'd hardly said anything all evening, and the silence clearly weighed on the kommandant who stupidly put his queen in danger.

"I don't think you want to do that, colonel," Hogan advised softly.

Klink cradled his head in his palm. "Verdammt," he swore softly.

Before Hogan could do more than raise an eyebrow, the ground rumbled under their feet, startling everyone. "What was that?" asked Klink. His voice had risen an octave.

A bridge being blown up by a disobedient sergeant, Hogan answered silently.

The glowering shade of Schmidl walked to the window as if dazed. After a few moments, she turned to the men. "This seems to put the nails in your coffin, colonel." Neither man was precisely sure to whom she referred.

Before either could speak, the phone rang. Klink sprang out of his chair like a newly-released arrow. "General Kinchmeyer, for you, lieutenant-colonel."

"Thank you." The conversation was short, sharp, and unpleasant. Schmidl's little color faded completely. She announced, as she put the receiver in its cradle, "I've been recalled to Berlin immediately. If you will summon my car, Herr Kommandant."

"With pleasure, lieutenant-colonel."

Hogan chuckled softly at the heartfeltness of Klink's reply.

Her departure dispelled the tension, and with the mellowness came the realization of exhaustion. Hogan yawned hugely and started drifting to sleep where he sat. Klink's voice returned him to reality. "Are you all right, Colonel Hogan? You look very unwell." There was a proffered glass of schnapps in the German officer's hand.

You look pretty pasty yourself, Herr Kommandant, Hogan thought as he fought for a reply while drinking down the schnapps. He opted to keep it short. "Thank you for a wonderful evening, but I think that my nasty cold and I should leave you to a quiet rest of the night."

And as if to punctuate his message, he sneezed and blew his nose as he left. Honk. Honk.

HH HH HH

Although desiring nothing more than his bunk, Hogan remembered he had company. He got into the tunnels with Kinch's help just as his men returned from their excursion. From the side of the ladder he watched black-shod feet, black-stockinged legs, and a black-dressed body descend. But instead of coming straight into his arm's reach, she jumped outward and to the opposite side. She came up to look at him--from a safe 6 feet away.

"Did you honestly think I'd put myself in harm's way?"

He looked innocent. "Harm's way?"

She looked daggers at him, and her soprano voice was arch. "Spare me the innocent routine, Colonel Hogan. You can hardly have appreciated my giving you a bloody nose and a split lip. I expected you to try and repay me in kind, to ship me off to London tied up like old newspaper."

Newkirk brought the butt of his pistol down on the back of her neck. She collapsed in a heap of black wool jersey.

"Well done, Newkirk. Now, if you'll be so kind, tie her up." Hogan limped painfully over to Kinchloe. "Contact London and tell them we have their plans. And their potatoes."

He turned to Carter, who tried to slip away, but he tripped over his own satchel. Appearing to all the world like a caught-out little boy—he was rubbing one foot behind a leg--Carter mumbled sheepishly, "Yes, sir?"

"In my office, sergeant."

He gulped. "Yes, sir." He disappeared up the ladder, with Hogan coming more slowly behind him.

Newkirk looked at his mates. "I volunteered to go with Andrew on that mission." He took a deep breath. "I'd best get up there and take my share of the reward." He followed up the ladder as LeBeau and Kinchloe just shook their heads.

HH HH HH

Next morning at roll call, Hogan could barely stand—his knee painful and stiff, his chest racked with coughing. Schultz stopped before Hogan, looking at the slightly battered face. "I'm sorry, Colonel."

"It's all right, Schultz. I'll get over it."

Klink arrived. He had announcements. "I am sure that you all heard the explosions last night. It was simply several of your bombers shot down by the glorious Luftwaffe."

"Right. Like you guys could hit the broad side of a barn," yelled Olsen, a dark-haired airman. There was a general round of guffawing. Carter and Newkirk looked blankly forward.

Klink made a noise and swished his balled up fist in front of him. "Dis—missed."

Inside the barracks, Hogan reached for a cup of coffee, only to be handed tea. "Newkirk, you know I hate this stuff." It was almost a whine.

Kinch had something to say, but was cut off by Schultz barging in. The sergeant looked at the American officer and handed him a dark, wooden cane. "Until your knee gets better."

Hogan took it from him. "Thanks, Schultz." The German NCO left in a swirl of snow and cold air, muttering to himself, "What a naughty woman to hurt such a nice fellow."

Smiling, almost laughing, in spite of his pain, the colonel tried the cane out. Placing it on his left side, he walked cautiously. It did relieve his sore knee. But it was difficult to walk and drink his tea at the same time. He took a slug of the tea and grimaced. "You were going to say something, Kinch?"

"We have a problem."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Because of the weather, we can't get our packages out."

"So? We hang on to them." Hogan took another mouthful of tea. How could Newkirk keep drinking this thin, ragged, uninspired swill? "So when do they estimate they'll try for a pickup?"

"Two, three days, colonel. But that's not the problem." Kinch paused. "London is not happy that you want to send Magic Flute back. In fact, they've got orders for you concerning her. You're not going to like them."

Hogan didn't like the way Kinchloe tap-danced around the issue. That wasn't his way. "What are they ordering me to do? Marry her?" There was snickering all around. Even Kinch smiled as he handed over the clipboard.

Hogan's own grin disappeared as he read it. He heaved a wheezy sigh that turned into a cough. "We've still got to knock off that German general and let Magic Flute lead the way." His eyes locked on Kinchloe. "Are they serious?"

"Very, sir, and they weren't pleased to know that we had detained Magic Flute."

"At least, she'll 'ave a 'eadhache to match yours, sir."

Hogan nodded as he put down the mug and attempted to head to the tunnel.

"You're going in the wrong direction, mon colonel."

"Excuse me, LeBeau, but who made you my nurse?"

"I did. And you are going back to bed where you belong." After a pregnant pause, LeBeau added a respectful, "Sir."

HH HH HH

Heaving another wheezy sigh, Hogan stumped off to his office and slammed the door behind him. he sat down to think then he started to sneeze. He pulled his handkerchief out, only to realize it was HER handkerchief. It was just a slip of linen trimmed with some very fancy, expensive lace. Examining it, he found no monogram, no embroidered decoration. Achoo. Achoo. His cold had to be letting up—either that or she wore an enormous amount of perfume. Heavy, a combination of sandalwood and musk, he thought.

Trying to figure her out was leaving him split—was she or wasn't she on their side? Had she turned? She certainly played the Gestapo officer well. Too well. That was the problem. What stopped her from being a really well done plant? What if in fact she WAS Elena Schmidl, Gestapo colonel?

Well, Rob, you're just going to have to talk to her yourself. Find out the story and judge from that.

HH HH HH

He had had to wait several hours before he could do that. He'd napped a bit, after which he felt marginally better, but LeBeau had remained on nurse duty until Schultz and Langenscheit removed the men for snow detail. With the coast finally clear, Hogan limped into the tunnels.

Magic Flute had come around, but was still tied up. She was even gagged with what appeared to be one of Newkirk's socks. Hogan carefully removed it. She practically spat at him, "What the hell is going on?"

God, she pushes all the wrong buttons with me. But he smiled sweetly and said, "Suffice to say I don't trust you. You played your part only too well. Who's to say you haven't turned?"

She turned her face up to him. Her eyes were ringed with dark smudges that stood out against her pale skin. "You are an infernally stubborn man. General Walters warned me of that."

"Name dropping won't do you any good." She made a sort of strangled noise. "Not as good as Hochstetter. So who are you really?"

His baritone was steel under silk.

"I'm surprised your voice can be so pleasant given the nastiness of your cold."

"Spare me the conversation, and just answer the questions." He hadn't liked her icy tone one bit.

"Could I have a cup of tea?"

"Only if I like your answers."

"Oh, very well. Walters warned me I was probably going to get this from you." She sighed before going on. "I am Major Miriam Siwân Broadbent, Royal Army Intelligence." The ice queen was suddenly gone, replaced with the coquette. "I am also a widow."

Hogan remained unmoved.

"I have been doing deepcover work since 1940. My German identity was Elena Schmidl of Vienna—Austrian as the Paperhanger himself--party member since 1931, recently promoted lieutenant colonel in the Gestapo." She started to tremble. "A role I am singularly grateful I no longer have to play."

While her shaking continued unabated, he looked at her expectantly.

"What more do you want? I have been feeding information to London for years; I have been involved in counterespionage work at the same time. Who do you think blew Robin Hood's cover?"

"Hans Teppel, alias Robert Morrison of Milwaukee."

"No. He got the job of dealing with Robin Hood. I found him, exposed him, and forced him to run. Right into Morrison."

Suddenly, her face went bleak. Concerned, Hogan asked, "What's wrong?"

"Morrison was compromised. He was shot last week."

That news sobered Hogan as he remembered the American agent. Her arch, angry voice returned him to the present. "If you could believe him, why not me? Or are you merely angry that I bloodied your nose?"

London should have codenamed her Quicksilver--it would have fit better, he thought, but that was probably due to sudden decompression. The shakes hadn't gone unnoticed. He recognized combat fatigue when he saw it. Her point was valid, though, even if it was expressed in the most obnoxious fashion, guaranteed to make him want to smack her in the mouth--a wide, generous mouth that could be put to far better use. He shook his head. That is no way to think about her, Rob, not if you want to say alive.

"I'll take that under advisement. Still want that cup of tea?"

"Oh, yes, please. And something to eat, if possible. I'm famished." The tremblers had stopped as suddenly as they'd begun.

It took him a bit to get her that tea and sandwich, but she fell on them with gusto when he released her. "You had dinner last night with me and Klink."

She looked up disgustedly. "Overdone Wiennerschintzel? If you really want the truth…"

"Yes?"

"I hate German food."

He laughed. At that moment, she reminded him of Major Bonacelli. "And English is any better?" She swatted playfully at him, but made no answer, as her mouth was full. "Seriously, Miriam…."

She swallowed hard. "And just when, ROBERT, did I give you leave to call me by my Christian name?"

"Excuse me, MAJOR BROADBENT…."

She interrupted him again. "Oh, Miriam is fine. Miri is better."

She gave him a lovely and alluring smile that put him back on full alert. Definitely quicksilver.

"Whatever. As I was about to say, before you so rudely interrupted me." She harrumphed, but he went on. "What is so important about this Kraut general that he needs to be killed?" Assassination was a last resort. Too many people started asking questions. "Or are you merely being Gestapo ruthless?"

"I am British Army ruthless," she snapped. "If any one general could actually devise an invasion of Britain plan which would actually get past that natural tank trap of the Channel, it is Marck. In addition to which, he keeps the other copy of the rocket schematics in his brain. He has a photographic memory. Assassination is the most effective way to eliminate the threat." Hogan tried to whistle, but no sound came out. "And last but not least, he is a most thorough-going Nazi. There is no way to break him—even using Gestapo methods. However, if we kill the general, we can pin it on the Gestapo."

She smiled, but he noticed it didn't reach to her eyes.

"How?"

"The assassination needs to look like a Gestapo execution. That will set them on themselves, freeing the Underground," she paused to jab his chest with a slim finger, "and you, to do what you do best. This will probably only last for a couple of weeks. But it could be a fun time."

Hogan sat down heavily. "Oh great. And how do we get to him, MIRI?" This had all the earmarks of a setup.

"General Marck's wife is a very pious, Bavarian-born Catholic who converted her Lutheran Junker husband. He's very devoted to her, especially now that she is very ill. They are currently in Hammelburg at their residence. There are always nuns in attendance on Alix Marck. We get in dressed as nuns, and take care of her husband."

"It won't do much for her, will it?"

"It will probably kill her."

"And you don't care."

"It will be mercy." She met his stare straight on. "She has cancer. Not a hope in heaven for her." Miri then really surprised Hogan, not that he thought she could have surprised him more—she crossed herself. "Do you know how long it's been since I've been able to do that?"

He didn't answer that last. "And where do we get nuns' habits? And who's going to go on this little farce?" He didn't think there was a hope in heaven for them, either.

"Really, Robert, for a man whose reputation is one for unorthodox solutions, you can be such a stick in the mud. For your information, there is a convent not far from here. I know the mother superior—she's actually in the Underground, though you'd never know it—and I'll get them from her. Two at least. Nuns at the bare minimum travel in pairs. YOU won't be among the sisters."

Before he could demand why not, he started sneezing. The fits were unpredictable at best. He used her hanky to blow his nose. Honk. Honk.

"I don't need any geese on this chase," she said as she moved very close to him.

That movement suddenly sparked and snapped the air with fire.

"Given your illness, I will lead the troops in this escapade, and you are going to bed, where you belong. Between the cold and the beating, you are out for this round."

The colonel stood up. "Yes, ma'am," he intoned solemnly as gave her a salute that more than verged on the insubordinate. He started toward the ladder.

She called to him, saucily, "So what do your friends call you? Rob, Bob, perhaps Bobby?"

He ignored the impertinence and went up the ladder. He called over his shoulder, "Robert." It wasn't true; his friends and siblings called him Rob, but he wanted her to use his full name. God knew why.


	3. Queen 3

"We're going to Hammelburg, dressed like bleedin' nuns to knock off some Gerry general?"

Newkirk essentially sounded off for all the men. And hearing it from him, it did sound like a ridiculous idea. At the same time, it was just farfetched enough to work.

"Beggin' the colonel's pardon, but have you lost your ruddy mind?"

Suddenly, Hogan was very tired and very glad not to be going on this mission. A long sleep would be very nice. Sounding Miri out--God when had she converted him?--had been exhausting, but this was even worse. "No, I haven't lost my mind, nor am I suffering from fever-induced delusions. And yes, Magic Flute is going to lead this mission." Achoo. Achoo.

And speaking of the devil, she entered the radio room with silent grace. Hogan looked up, pegged her for a dancer. The tension between them was palpable.

"And you don't think this is a setup by a planted Gestapo agent?"

Hogan didn't miss either LeBeau's acerbitc tone or distrustful expression.

"Mother Augustine spared 2 habits. These should fit me and LeBeau." She nailed him with a direct gaze. "You do want to keep an eye on me, don't you, Corporal?"

LeBeau muttered something nobody wanted translated, took his habit, and began to change. He pulled the main robe over his head, tucked the white wimple under it and laced the whole thing up. He dropped the heavy black wool scapular over the wimple and robe. He reached for the veil.

Magic Flute did the same--without regard for the reaction of the men around her. They beat a hasty retreat into the connecting tunnel. lt took her even less time to dress and then she pinned their veils in place. "I think we look pretty convincing."

LeBeau did not respond.

She handed him the long wooden rosary, showed him how to tie at the waist, and then handed him the pistol. "Keep it in the scapular, Sister Josepha."

"Oui, ma soeur."

"Maria Gabriela."

Carter, who'd stuck his head in, yelled, "Hey, we've got nuns in here." He ambled up to LeBeau. "Hey, Louis, you look real." The chemist lifted up the scapular to see under it, and then veil.

LeBeau slapped his hand. "Aw, cut it out already. You'll mess up my veil."

Miri approached Hogan. "Is the car where it should be?"

All he could see of her was a triangle of her face. Without having to compete with her hair, her luminous eyes stood out. She was even more stunning. The colonel fought his desire to kiss her.

"Yeah. On the road, just outside of camp. You'll go out the emergency tunnel."

"Pax vobiscum," she chimed as she and LeBeau passed him.

Looking after them, Hogan hastily, sloppily crossed himself and prayed he'd not just sent Louis into a trap.

HH HH HH

Not a trap, but a fiasco. They got to the Marcks' residence and parked the car in a sidestreet. As they approached the door, they were cut off by Gestapo agents who roughly shoved them aside. LeBeau hissed at Magic Flute, who'd turned as white as her wimple, "What do we do now?"

"We keep to the plan."

"Lovely." He followed her in the wake of the Gestapo agents.

They got past the vestibule, into the foyer, but were blocked by what seemed mobs of Gestapo troops. Magic Flute motioned them towards the very back. Raised voices in the study were only partially identifiable. LeBeau made out Major Hochstetter. Who could not recognize that growl? He thought the other was the general. Magic Flute leaned over and said, "Major Dietrich Feldcamp."

"What's he doing here?"

Field Marshal Marck opened the door to his study and strode out, demanding that the troops leave his house immediately. "I do not care about your petty threats, gentlemen. Your intrusion into my household has caused undo hardship to my dying wife. I will not forget her discomfort."

He swept the room with his eyes, lighting on the two cowering nuns in the back. "Meine Schwestern," he beckoned. LeBeau thought he was going to have a heart attack--even more so as Magic Flute seemed to glide toward the field marshal, who took her hand in his, saying as he kissed it, "I am so glad that you could come, meine Schwester."

She responded evenly, dispassionately, "We were summoned." She indicated LeBeau with a bare nod. "This is Sister Josepha. I am Sister Maria Gabriela. May we see your wife?"

Hochstetter attempted to bar their way. "Herr FeldMarshal, these women have not been cleared by my men...."

Field Marshal Marck exploded, "They are sisters of the Holy Cross convent here in Hammelburg!" And with sweeping command, he caused the troops to part before him. The two nuns glided in his wake up the stairs. He motioned them into Frau Marck's room.

A gaunt woman barely turned her head on the pillow. "Dieter?"

He practically flew to the bedside. "Ja, my darling? The sisters have come." Her dying eyes took them in. LeBeau was moved to real compassion. This was no easy death.

"Sehr gut," she wheezed as the two nuns knelt beside the bed and began the _Miserere_.

The field marshal left after squeezing his wife's hand. The door swung shut. The dying woman looked into the face of Sister Maria Gabriela--and laughed. It sounded more like a cackle.

LeBeau looked at Magic Flute, who had completely lost her composure. She stared into the woman's face.

Alix Marck continued, "So, Elena, it's true. You are a spy. I should scream."

Magic Flute found her voice. "Alix, my real name is Miriam, not Elena. And I am...."

"English."

"Welsh, thank you."

LeBeau rolled his eyes heavenward. Here I am, he thought, a man dressed as nun in an attempt to assassinate a Bosche general, and now we're having a truth session with the general's dying wife. This is trop ridicule, trop absurde.

"What should I do with you, Elena? The Gestapo agent turned nun. You are very clever, dear, but not clever enough to get past Dietrich. He became inordinately suspicious of you after you refused him. I tried putting him off, to no avail."

"Alix, I wish you a speedy and merciful death." She jumped up, grabbed LeBeau, and ran to the window. LeBeau saw what she was up to. He put his back up.

"I am not jumping out the window."

Footsteps thumped up the stairs.

"Oh, and you have a better idea?" LeBeau shook his head and went out the window. Alix Marck started yelping piteously. Miri darted over to the bed, snatched up a pillow, and stuffed it over the woman's face. The Welsh spy pushed it once before ran through the window, jumped on the ledge, and pulled the window shut behind her. LeBeau had fortunately found the gutter and beckoned to her. They carefully took it to the street and disappeared around the corner as Hochstetter yelled out the window for them. With not a moment to spare, they sped away.

Silence engulfed them as they made their way back to camp—until LeBeau asked, "Dietrich?"

"Feldcamp fell in love with me. I encouraged him. Part of me wanted that. But it was also a part I had to play. But when he asked me to marry him, I had to refuse. Acting only goes so far, and one bad marriage is sufficient."

LeBeau didn't miss the bitterness in her voice. He cursed under his breath. "Feldcamp?"

She stopped the car. "DO NOT underestimate Feldcamp. He's much smarter than Hochstetter. He's the one who knows about your little operation. Of course, I messed up the files. All part of the complex reasons I need to get out of here." She started driving again.

HH HH HH

"So the mission went sour? How come?" The colonel's hoarse voice made his anger and his suspicion all the rougher.

Dressed again in her black dress, Magic Flute stood to attention as the colonel glared at her in ire. Nothing proclaimed her British army more than that ramrod straight spine.

Her words killed the effect. "Your lip seems to be healing nicely, Robert."

Hogan thought he was going to explode. His eyebrows hid in his hairline. He looked meaningfully at LeBeau. "Take a walk, corporal." LeBeau saluted, turned on his heel, and rapidly departed.

Deadly-voiced despite his cold, Hogan said, "I suppose there's a reason for that insubordination?"

Broadbent hadn't relaxed. She focused on the open collar of Hogan's green cotton pyjamas under the green dressing gown. "Why did the mission go sour? Several reasons. If you had trusted me, we could have gotten there sooner. An hour earlier would have been good. But, the reality is this: Hochstetter and Feldcamp are working together, something I didn't anticipate."

"Why not?" he demanded. Her emphasis on I was very clear to him.

She sighed heavily as she continued to stare at the point where Hogan's collarbones came together. He wished she'd look between his shoulder and his ear. Her intense gaze burned a hole in the base of his throat.

"The tradition within the Gestapo is to set everyone against each other. They are professional rivals. Furthermore, they were personal rivals. They both vied for my affection. I played them off against each other that way." Broadbent swallowed hard. "I can only assume that Dietrich made some sort of truce with Wolfgang after I turned him down."

Hogan goggled at her in sheer surprise--his jaw dropped, his eyes widened. With a shake of his head, he asked incredulously, "Let me get this straight. FELDCAMP asked you to marry him? And you turned him down? This all hinges on hurt feelings?" Hogan sat down on the edge of his bunk.

Broadbent relaxed. "Yes. To all of it. It would be laughable, Robert, if it weren't so bloody awful." She paused. "And bloody dangerous."

Most of the wind had been taken out of Hogan's sails, and he sagged emptily. "And now what do we do?"

"I'll think of something. But I will do it alone. I work better that way." She stared out the window. She started trembling. "And if I go down, I only take myself."

The resignation, the vulnerability in her voice pulled Hogan back to her. He moved to within inches of her. He could just catch a whiff of her rich, dusky perfume. She turned her head away as his hands started stroking her arms. He pulled her around to stare into her eyes. The emotion mirrored therein had fluctuated from anger to betrayal to fright, and now he felt himself melting into her. He closed the distance between them and kissed her deeply, intensely. He felt her head tilt back against his arm. When Hogan came up for air—and he could hear her inhale sharply—she buried her face in his chest. His cheek rested on the top of her head.

He murmured reassuringly, "Hold on just a little longer, Miri, and it will all be over. You'll be home."

They held each other for several minutes before Kinchloe barged in on them. Without prelude, he said, "Colonel, Gestapo just rolled in. Feldcamp and Hochstetter heading here with Klink in tow."

Broadbent and Hogan broke apart, and before he or Kinchloe could stop her, she opened the window and disappeared. Kinchloe shut the window as the colonel jumped into his bunk, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Not a moment too soon, either, as Feldcamp, Hochstetter, and Klink poured into his quarters. The Gestapo waved Kinchloe out.

Klink protested. "But, gentlemen, Lt. Col. Schmidl carried out a rather physical interrogation of my senior POW. He was dragged unconscious and bleeding from the cooler and has barely been able to walk since then. She then relented, providing him humane treatment before turning to silent staring over the course of an entire evening."

Hochstetter sounded weary, as if he'd been speaking to idiots all day. "Klink, Schmidl was a plant. What you saw was a well-constructed scene to make you think she'd interrogated Hogan. I'm sure there's not a bruise or a mark on him."

Klink turned into a quivering mass of Jell-O. "I'm sure Colonel Hogan won't mind you examining him."

Resenting this discussion of him as if he weren't even present, Hogan snorted. "I must protest, Herr Kommandant. It's a violation of the Geneva Convention. It violates my modesty. Above all, can't you see I'm a sick man?"

"I don't really care about the Geneva Convention, your false modesty, or your illness, colonel. I want you to strip," Dietrich Feldcamp ordered coldly as he reached down and pulled the American out of his bunk.

With eyes as wide as saucers and hands clutching his dressing gown protectively, Hogan demurred. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I'm not that kind of fella."

Hochstetter stepped up to Hogan, peering into his face. "How did you hurt your lip?"

"A very nice Gestapo agent gave me a pop in the nose, and her ring cut my lip. Let me tell you, that hurt."

"She was not Gestapo. She is a British spy." Real, cold anger from Feldcamp this time.

"You let the British in? What WILL old Scramble Brain say to that?"

"Hogan!" Klink snapped.

The Kommandant hadn't much backbone at the best of times, but certainly not with as much Gestapo as had been around lately. And given the attitude of these two goons, Hogan certainly couldn't blame him.

Hochstetter pried Hogan's hands away from his dressing gown, roughly pulling it open. He ripped the pyjama jacket from neck to navel, revealing the American's pale, hairless, and shoe-printed chest. Both Gestapo officers peered and pressed at the bruises. Hogan sighed, occasionally groaning. This was worse than the poking and the prodding of the flight surgeon, and the pyjamas were beyond even Newkirk's ability to repair.

After a moment or two, the pilot queried crossly, "Want to see the knee?" And let's get this farce over with? he mentally added. He raised his pyjama leg and displayed a swollen, purple-green knee. "Now, can I go back to bed?" He pulled his garments together with wounded dignity.

Hochstetter growled, but it was Feldcamp who dismissed him. "We've seen all we need to see." Anymore would have been prurient interest, thought Hogan. "Apparently, Schmidl continued in her duty with you."

They all stomped out of his office.

HH HH HH

While Hogan was entertaining the Gestapo, the Welsh spy clambered into the boot of Feldcamp's car. Magic Flute was going to get her man—even if it killed her. She was going to let the Gestapo take her back into town. Knowing Dietrich, she thought, he'll go back and argue with Marck. She patted the small calibre pistol in her stocking holster.

She got into town without a hitch. The car drove right up to Marck's residence. After the two Gestapo officers had entered through the front door, Magic Flute went around to the side window of the study. It was unlatched. Voices were shouting at one another in the hallway. A smile just tweaked her lips as she hopped through the window. Silently crossing the room to hide behind the light, she waited. Field Marshal Marck dispatched his Gestapo interlocutors with a curt dismissal—a growl that would have curdled milk. Muttering to himself, he came back to the desk, sat down, and took up his pen.

There was no plan to this. She was just running on instinct this time. Removing the pistol from her stocking top, she approached the field marshal with cat-like tread. He didn't see her, nor did he even seem to have the atavistic reaction stereotypically associated with people about to be killed. Without touching him, she placed the barrel of the pistol right behind his ear and squeezed the trigger. The explosion of gases and bullet sounded very loud in her ears. Marck slumped over his desk, a pool of blood widening beneath his shattered head. She glanced over the desk to see if anything important were lying about and noticed the calendar. Tomorrow was March 1. She sighed in relief—and then bolted out the window and down the alley.

The alley let out not far from the Hofbrau. Miriam wondered how she was going to get out of Hammelburg when to her amazement—coincidence or divine intervention she couldn't tell—Klink drove up. As soon as he disappeared into the Hofbrau, the Welsh spy darted over to the car and easily tucked herself into the boot. "Thank you, Dewi Sant," she swiftly prayed.

HH HH HH

Klink did not return to Stalag 13 until very late, and Magic Flute had had to listen to his drunken ramblings about the Gestapo. And worse, his singing. What a spineless sop, she thought mercilessly. And his driver had managed to hit every bump in the road. By the time the private put the car in the motor pool, Magic Flute wanted to scream. Stiffly, she got out of the boot, then used the car as cover until she could duck out to the barracks. Fortunately, she was all in black, and zigzagging between buildings, she quickly made her way over to Hogan's window—which was latched. Damn him! she thought angrily. He bloody looked me out in the cold. With shivering hands, she tried to ease the latch, but to no avail. She tried pushing more firmly, when suddenly the window gave completely, throwing her over the sill. With her head staring at the inside wall and her bum prominently displayed on the sill, she wondered if her career, if not her life, were going to ignominiously end at any moment.

"What an attractive position, Miri," croaked a sleepy voice.

Without raising her head, she snapped, "Don't just stand there, Robert. Get me off this window sill." She heard him snicker as he grabbed her around the waist, tucked her next to him like an American football, and pulled her through. He set her on her feet as she glared up at him. "Thank you ever so much."

"You're welcome, dear." Hogan climbed back into his bunk, secured his white flannel nightshirt between his knees as he drew the blanket back over himself. He was softly snoring within seconds.

Miri jstood there, gawping at the recumbent form, for a few seconds. She realized the bunk above him was empty. I guess that's where I get to sleep. I do hope he's left me a pillow and a blanket. Stepping carefully on the lower bunk—she didn't want to step on any bare toes—she pulled herself into the upper bunk. Yes, a blanket, but no pillow. "Baaagh" she growled as she curled herself into the smallest possible ball.

HH HH HH

The next morning, Hogan slept right through roll call. Sgt. Schultz, quietly, with real grace, entered to make sure the colonel was indeed sick in bed, that there was no monkey business. Looking down, the corpulent guard studied the sleeping pilot a moment, thinking how boyish the American appeared. Why was it, he wondered, that wicked, impish boys always seemed so angelic when sound asleep? When he realized that Hogan had displaced his blanket, Schultz reached over and pulled it over the prisoner's shoulders. He straightened up, and he looked directly into the dark eyes of Miriam Broadbent alias Elena Schmidl.

Schultz started stammering, "You're…you're…you're the Gestapo colonel…everybody is looking for. You're…."

Broadbent cut him off. "Oh, do be quiet, sergeant. You'll wake Colonel Hogan." She looked down on the sleeping man. Gently, she added, "He needs his sleep, poor lamb." The major swung herself out of the upper bunk, landing lightly beside Schultz whose eyes popped.

Muttering "I see noth-thing" under his breath, Schultz hurriedly retreated and made a bee line for the barracks door.

Kinchloe intercepted him. "What's wrong, Schultz?"

"Please, Sgt. Kinchloe, no more of your funny business," he whined. At the puzzled look on Kinch's face, he added, "Colonel Hogan has a woman in his room…."

"Ruddy officers get all the perks," groused Newkirk from his bunk.

Schultz didn't take his eyes off Kinchloe. "It's the Gestapo colonel."

Kinchloe put a consoling arm on Schultz's shoulder. "Thing is, Schultzie, she's not a Gestapo colonel. She's a British army major."

"Oh," he said, relaxing. "That makes it better." He smacked his face with his hand. "Donnewetter! What am I saying?"

"Don't worry, Schultz, she's leaving today."

"Not a moment too soon," hissed LeBeau.

"Are you sure, Sgt. Kinchloe?"

"Absolutely, Schultzie."

The big man sighed deeply before adding, "Did you know she called him 'poor lamb'? I didn't know she was fond of him." He stood at the door, shaking his head in his usual confusion.

Leaning against the doorjam, grinning from ear to ear, barely able to keep from laughing, Kinchloe looked up at Newkirk. "Oh, boy, wait till the colonel hears that one. Poor lamb indeed!"

"The major's going to need all the distance between 'ere and Wales when the guv'nor finds out. He'll go spare."

Carter, who'd ambled into the conversation, overhearing the majority of it, looked thoughtful. "I don't know. It's pretty endearing." He cocked his head. "You know, I think they're kinda sweet on each other." He earned a cap thrown at him from Newkirk and the classic Gallic shrug from LeBeau. The chemist added, plaintively, "Well, don't you?"

"Jolly joker," said Schultz, who left the men to their own devices.

**Nota Bene: I originally posted these several years ago—1999 or 2000, I can't remember. I pulled them down in a flash of white-hot anger that did nothing but deprive the characters of a proper stage and HH fans, I hope, some amusement. **


End file.
